What Happened to Fan Fic Phoebe: A Doc Martin Mystery
by Boots1980
Summary: This light summer read takes place at the end of Season 6. Ruth Ellingham's friend, Phoebe Nielsen, travels to Portwenn to attend a convention of Fan Fiction writers for the mythical TV show, "Khyber Love." What ensues is - well - a mystery!
1. Chapter 1

**What Happened to Fan Fic Phoebe: A Doc Martin Mystery**

"**Khyber Love" and its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Poppyfield Productions. We are grateful to Ramint Slunec and his lovely wife, Tabitha Wire Alipphi, for allowing us to play about with their brilliant story. **

**Chapter 1 – Cloisonne**

All I wanted was to sleep in my own bed, in my own home, with Louisa. But the North Cornwall Water Company deprived me of this simple pleasure. Since my refusal to enrich the employee Christmas fund by bribing Tom Giddins, the company's august manager, he made my life as miserable as the bacteria-laden dogs of Portwenn. Now Giddins had struck again by ruling that the water lines to our newly-refurbished home were corrupted by _Leptospiriosis_, at best, or _Escherichia Coli-0157-H7_, at worst. Weeks, perhaps a month, would be needed to replace the lines and ensure that the wash-off from cow manure had not contaminated our water supply.

After only three months in what Louisa continued to call our newlywed nest, we were forced from the expansive stone house back to the sparse confines of Fern Cottage. Gone were the newly-glazed windows, kitchen with 5 hob cooker, functioning dishwasher, and en suite bathroom. The stout surgery suited me well in my bachelor days, but it was simply not equipped for a family of three. Especially when one member had a penchant for messiness, no matter the effort I expended to change her.

So it was this Saturday afternoon, my surgery closed for nearly an hour, that I was ordering the disarray left by a scattered head teacher and a toddler who favoured his mother in matters of tidiness. Louisa and James would return soon with the week's shopping, and I had to work quickly. No spot remained in the cottage to _rob space._ Every nook was filled.

As I was retrieving books and papers from the floor, a shadow crossed my kitchen window. No, they can't be home yet. I've only just begun! A light tap at the door was followed by the distinctive voice of my Aunt Ruth, "Martin, are you there then?" I would make short shrift of Ruth, although she rarely looked in for a bothersome chat as her sister, Joan Norton, had done.

"What is it Aunt Ruth? I'm quite busy."

"Yes, I can see that. I've only stopped to ask if you might have a quick look at the Merc's tyres. I'm off to Bodmin Parkway to fetch a friend and they feel a bit wobbly."

This was the very sort of excuse Aunt Joan might have used, and it annoyed me that Ruth was drifting in that direction. Yet I dutifully followed her slight figure to the ancient Mercedes. Of course, the tyre treads and the car, itself, were ready for the journey. "There was no need to come here, Aunt Ruth. The tyres are fine."

"Thank you ever so, Martin. It's only with Al off on his honeymoon, I've felt a bit unsure about all things mechanical."

"I thought they were back. Wasn't he to bring in the early veg crop? "

"Yes, but Pauline was having such a splendid time in Las Vegas that they've stayed another few days. They're due back on Tuesday."

Why a gambling addict thought it a good idea to be married in Las Vegas by an Elvis Presley impersonator was beyond me. When I voiced this opinion at the dinner Aunt Ruth hosted for the engaged couple, Louisa had shushed me, as did Bert Large and Dawn Lamb. My next question to Ruth was: "Who are you fetching from the train?"

"Oh, Martin, I've mentioned her several times. Phoebe Nielsen. Dr. Nielsen, my colleague from Broadmoor. She gave up the ghost about the same time I did. When they closed the Paddock Centre and transferred the grave and immediate danger patients to Rampton, she retired. Can't say that I blame her. Without those doolallies, the place would be dull as Jung. Now the escape sirens will only be heard during the Monday testing. Pity, really. Well, must be off."

My curiosity was piqued. Ruth never talked about her career treating the criminally insane, although she was supposedly writing a book about her experiences. I wondered aloud if her old colleague might help with the book she'd eagerly put aside for a chess game with Al Large.

"No, she's not to help with my book," Ruth sniffed, an edge to her voice. "Although she is a writer of sorts. Since her retirement, she's taken to writing Fan Fiction for the TV show "Khyber Love." Louisa told me you watch the show with her and quite enjoy it."

Certainly, I would rub Louisa's feet as she watched a bit of TV drivel each night. But I had no idea what Ruth was talking about. I had never heard of anything called "Fan Fiction" or the equally uninteresting "Khyber Love." Ruth was not to know this. "Yes, of course," I managed. "Well my best to – um – your friend."

"You do know that Louisa has asked us to supper tonight, Martin? Phoebe's train arrives at four, and we should be back here well before six. If you're not to feed us, we'll have a bite in Bodmin before going to the farm."

Bugger all. Louisa had said something about dinner, but I had been so distracted by my most-recent exchange with that imbecile Giddins that it slipped my mind.

"Right then. Yes, supper at six. Looking forward to it," I lied. What I was looking forward to was a few hours of peace with Louisa and James in an orderly house.

"Well, if you're certain, Martin, I'll bring Phoebe from the station. She's a brilliant psychiatrist and you'll enjoy chatting with her. Louisa has read her Fan Fiction stories and is very anxious to discuss "Khyber Love." I believe Morwenna and Maureen Fenn are invited as well."

"Oh, God," I groaned, no longer able to contain myself.

Ruth stood on tiptoe and softly pecked my cheek before slyly whispering: "What you did for love" and entering the Merc.

Several hours later, James Henry had been fed, I had read two bedtime stories to him and could no longer prolong his drift into sleep. There was nothing to be done but make my way to the lounge and bid the five cackling women good night. I could then escape to our bedroom with the hope that Louisa would soon show them the door.

"Oh, good, Martin's returned." Louisa's expression bore the hope that I would somehow fit in, be one of them. "Has James nodded off then?" she sweetly inquired.

"Yes, and I'm afraid I must join him. Long day, busy surgery. Possibly some emergencies tonight. Must have some rest, journal articles to read. Good night then."

"Rubbish, Martin," scolded Aunt Ruth, a glass of red wine held precariously in her left hand. "We are having a fascinating talk with Phoebe, and Louisa said you always watch 'Khyber Love' with her." Again, that pleading look from Louisa: Stay, be part of it, play your role as my husband. Please stay.

Defenceless, I reluctantly perched on a straight-back chair and glanced quickly at Louisa. She rewarded me with a smile, her eyes communicating pleasure with my decision. I could suffer through a few minutes, actually more than that, for her.

I cleared my throat and tried to look enthusiastic as I gamely requested: "Please continue, Dr. Nielsen."

"Oh do call me Phoebe. I've left that old doctor life behind and quite like this new one."

I nodded at the smartly-dressed woman who had artfully nestled her tall frame into a corner of the leather Chesterfield. She must be near Aunt Ruth's age, but somehow seemed younger, more vital. Although her left eye was a bit milky, perhaps from a cataract, and her hair had far more gray strands than blonde. It was twisted into a loose effort, held by a cloisonné hair comb, similar to one I gave my mother as a child. I was perturbed to see that she and the other women had removed their shoes, likely made comfortable by the several bottles of wine they had consumed.

"Tell us about your convention then, Phoebe," Maureen spoke up.

"Of course, my dear. You know that this is to be the last season of 'Khyber Love,'"she intoned solemnly. Moans and a few "oh please, say no" greeted this declaration. "The wedding and honeymoon are to be filmed around Portwenn starting next week and will continue until summer term ends."

This caught my attention. "What filming is that," I demanded.

"Oh, Doc, you know," Morwenna sounded a bit exasperated. "The council lady had the meeting at Village Hall Monday a week. Filming's to be done between Camelford and Portwenn . Notices are posted all about the village. You've seen them. Pink with the arrows."

Like most things in the village, I had ignored the signs and only vaguely recalled this threatened invasion. It would do nothing more than muddle the villagers and cause me to treat more than my usual share of irritating tourists. No good could come of this. Realising it would affect my practise, I listened intently as Phoebe resumed speaking.

"As we all know, Nigel Lockhart is leaving 'Khyber Love' to become the new Dr. Who. He is simply scrumptious and a fit successor to Matt Smith. But not to David Tennant, in my opinion."

"I can't wait," Louisa squealed. Louisa, my intelligent, clever Louisa, squealing over a television actor! She cast an apologetic look in my direction, making me all-the-more eager to hear about this Nigel Lockhart.

"For the last five years," Phoebe explained, "Nigel has taken the role of Simon Siddiqi, the son of an Afghan warlord and a British baroness who met at Cambridge in the 1960s. Simon is a freelance news correspondent, based first in Iraq and now in Afghanistan. Although it has been variously hinted that he works for MI6, the Russian FIS, American CIA or even the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. He's quite the scoundrel!"

Murmurs of agreement were emitted by her audience as Phoebe continued:

"Simon is absolutely fantastic," more murmurs of agreement, even from Aunt Ruth. "But," Phoebe paused dramatically, "he cannot decide between the two women in his life. Fenella Quirk is an extraordinary young woman from the Isle of Man who works for Oxfam in Afghanistan. Gender issues and the like. Her rival for Simon's love is Jennifer Mitchell, a hard-nosed American aid worker who first met Simon in Baghdad and followed him to Afghanistan. Fenella was not pleased."

Nor did it seem was Maureen Fenn, who reacted in an unusually-emphatic manner: "I just hate that Jennifer Mitchell!" Fenella deserves Simon, just like I deserved my Roger."

"Oh, no," Morwenna rejoined. "Fenella is a cow. Has all that ginger hair, always twitching it about. She'll never make Simon happy. Jennifer is Simon's true love, don't you think Doc?"

"Uhm, well, uhm," now I was directing the pleading look to Louisa, who came to my rescue. "There's a good deal more to consider, Martin. Phoebe, please go on."

"Right, then. With the show ending, Simon must choose either Fenella or Jennifer as his wife. If not, the women of Britain and half the world will lay siege to the BBC. We know the first episodes of the show will lead up to the wedding and honeymoon, but we haven't a hint as to which woman Simon will marry. Everything is hush, hush, of course, but my fellow Fan Fiction writers have been churning out stories speculating on the ending. That's why we're gathering here in Cornwall to learn what we may about the final episodes. Of course, it's meant to be a convention for 'Khyber Love' fans and writers, but it seems we'll be chasing the actors and crew about the countryside. It'll be like riding to the hounds, won't it Ruth?"

"Or worse," my aunt noted with her wry smile.

"Well then," Ruth offered, "the lines are drawn between those like Maureen who want Simon to marry Fenella," here Maureen nodded her head vigorously, "and those like Morwenna who want Simon to marry Jennifer." Morwenna pranced about in some sort of dance, whooping, actually whooping, in my home!

"What about you, Phoebe," Louisa entered the fray. "Do you want Simon to marry Jennifer or Fenella?"

Smiling in a most enigmatic manner, Phoebe replied: "I have not made my choice known. Nor have I written any speculative stories. I remain neutral. The Switzerland of 'Khyber Love' Fan Fiction, if you like. It's made me terribly unpopular with my loyal readers and other writers, but I want to watch the filming to suss out clues. Body language is a psychiatrist's forte. Even when someone is acting, they emit information. I'll wait and see."

"What of the other writers," Louisa asked. "Aren't they nearly divided between the two?"

"It would seem so. The principal writers in Fenella's camp are 'Pashtu Penny,' 'Dari David,' and 'Urdu Ursula.' They've taken their pen names from the languages spoken in Afghanistan: Pashtu, Dari and Urdu," Phoebe pointed out.

"Because Jennifer operates schools for Afghan girls, the writers who favour her are 'Charlie Chalk,' 'Bettina Book' and 'Tessa Tutor.' Obviously, words associated with the teaching profession."

"Louisa is a teacher, head teacher at Portwenn Primary," I volunteered to Phoebe, hoping that my new wife would approve of my conversational efforts.

"But she didn't marry Simon Siddiqi now, did she," Morwenna grinned. "She married good old Doc Martin."

"And I'm very happy that I did! Martin is a wonderful husband," Louisa was quick to defend me.

"Yes, he would have to be," Phoebe looked indulgently at me, "putting up with this lot tonight. Not to say what we are about to inflict on your village, Dr. Ellingham."

I grimaced a bit but did manage one more piece of conversation, "What then is your pen name, Dr. Nielsen?"

"I'm called "Fan Fic Phoebe. A bit silly, but a bit memorable, wouldn't you say?"

Little did I know that Fan Fic Phoebe would figure in one of the most memorable medical cases of my career. You might say I didn't have a clue!

Continued. . . .


	2. Chapter 2

**What Happened to Fan Fic Phoebe: A Doc Martin Mystery**

**"Khyber Love" and its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Poppyfield Productions. We are grateful to Ramint Slunec and his lovely wife, Tabitha Wire Alipphi, for allowing us to play about with their brilliant story. **

**Chapter 2 – New Guinea**

I do not know when Louisa joined me in our cramped bedroom, but she was snoring softly when I awoke the next morning to James Henry's grissling. I tended to his nappie and gave him a wash before carrying him to the kitchen – he in his sleepsuit and I in my pyjamas. From experience, I had learned that Louisa required more sleep after an evening with friends.

After making coffee and putting eggs on the boil, I prepared cereal for James, adding the half banana remaining from yesterday's breakfast. He carefully watched my movements and happily gurgled as I walked to his chair with the bowl. Two bites into it, the timer sounded, and I quickly removed the eggs from the pot and rested them into their waiting cups. Taking a swallow of coffee, I returned to James who was eager for his meal. When he was finished, I spread Louisa's old, blue picnic rug on the floor and placed James in the midst of it with a few toys. He was content as I ate my eggs and toast and reconsidered last evening's events.

With any luck, the filming would be minimally disruptive to my surgery schedule as a hectic few weeks awaited me. England's recent change from PCTs to an NHS based primary care scheme allowed me to take on more duties. I now manage the expanded Portwenn Practice, covering 90 square miles. This includes six GPs, community and practice nurses, midwives and staff. Chris Parsons pushed me into the post, sharing my concerns about the younger doctors in Delabole and Polzeath. Numerous additional duties came with the new title, and Dr. McGwethey from St. Kew now saw to my Portwenn patients two afternoons a week. I could then travel to those needing more specialised treatment. It made the practice a bit more interesting and fulfilled the NHS mandate for acute care at home rather than hospital. Once again, Chris knew what I needed more than I did.

I do not regret remaining with Louisa and James in Portwenn. But the new post has re-invigorated me and made by decision to leave the surgical field somewhat more palatable. Still it stung when Robert Southwood occasionally phoned me "only to make certain" that my surgical career was at an end. As Aunt Ruth whispered to me yesterday, "what I did for love," was all too true.

After the washing up, I joined my son on the rug and switched on a brightly-colored music box sent by Louisa's London colleagues. Louisa, too, has no regrets about returning to Portwenn. I could understand why on witnessing James Henry's simple joy hearing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" played repeatedly. Our life was nearly perfect, save for the ouster from our new home at the hands of that idiot, Tom Giddins! A terrible thought occurred to me: would the filming in any way hinder the completion of our water lines. Standing to retrieve my laptop, I would immediately send Giddins a strongly-worded email demanding action.

When I switched on the computer, a flourish of music startled me and caused James to cry out in fear. What the bloody hell was this? Hastily I lowered the volume, and on the screen appeared a deeply-tanned man, his nose reminiscent of a Harris Hawk's beak and his eyes the color of urine from a hypercalcemic patient. Astride a white horse, the man raced across an arid plain, his long, blonde hair swirling in the resulting wind. Then the bold title, "Khyber Love," scrolled across his image. It seemed that Louisa had helped herself to my computer so that she and her friends could watch the insipid TV show soon to invade my village.

"My God, Martin, what are you doing," Louisa laughed as she entered the kitchen. "Having a catch up with Simon Siddiqi are you? He's quite dishy, wouldn't you say?"

"Nothing of the sort. And I'll thank you not to use my business computer for this – rubbish. It's one thing to have our village overrun, but there's no need to frighten James with your school girl attachment to this Simon and the other fools who are mucking about Portwenn."

"Jealous are you Martin? Hmmmm," Louisa teased as she cuddled next to me on the rug and reached for James. "Would you be a dear and make a pot of tea. I'll have a feed with James and then we can chat."

As always, I marveled as Louisa held James to her breast and he cuddled against her, sucking mightily. James was to be weaned at the end of summer term, and Louisa was having difficulty with her decision. I had made my thoughts known to her, but it was her body and her choice. James did as well with milk, but she loved the intimate act of nursing and worried that he would somehow love her less. A needless worry, as I continued to reassure her.

"Would you like breakfast now, Louisa? An egg, cereal? I could make you toast," I offered.

"No, only tea for the moment. Perhaps a _Chiocciola_ fizzy water. Orange if we have it. Head and tummy are a bit queasy. You're right, Martin, I should avoid red wine. But it is so bloody good. I can't imagine what Ruth and Phoebe feel like this morning. I gave them coffee before shooing them off near midnight. I'll phone Ruth in a bit, although I'll see her this afternoon."

"We're not to see Ruth. This is Sunday," I reminded Louisa. Unless I had a medical emergency, the three of us spent the day together. Occasionally we would drive to Bude or Wadebridge, but we mostly stayed in the village, mostly in our home.

"Actually, I will be seeing Ruth. Since she's taken your spot on the school's Board of Governors, she'll attend today's special meeting. I told you about this Martin. It has to do with the filming. The producer wants to stage several scenes in Portwenn Primary. It's meant to be one of Jennifer's schools near the Khyber Pass, but all they need is a chalkboard and an open space. The desks are to be removed, and carpets will cover the floor.

"It is the last scene before Simon leaves Jennifer in Afghanistan and returns to London. We talked about it last night. Oh no, that's right. You were reading to James when I told everyone about the scene. Sorry, then, I do have to be at the school. We're to be paid 1,000 pounds for the filming, and that'll go a long way toward the new boiler. Stu MacKenzie wants to offer up more of the school if it will add to our coffers. I'm concerned about the disruption to classes, but Stu and Ruth think it's a grand idea. "

"Well, what am I to do? Stay here with James and have a catch up with 'Khyber Love?'" A little annoyed, I placed the Italian fizzy water and a beaker of tea at Louisa's side.

"Not a bad idea, Martin. That's all anyone can talk about in the village and most of Cornwall. Your patients will be nattering on about it, and you should be able to join in. You know how you like a good chin wag," she playfully tousled my hair.

"Well I want none of it and will make it abundantly clear that I'll tolerate no nonsense. I can't believe two intelligent women like Aunt Ruth and Dr. Nielsen have allowed themselves to be taken in by this - this spectacle! They should be writing books and not mooning over a blonde pretty boy who's exposed himself to skin cancer and who knows what else by that preposterous tan."

"Letting go your comment that Ruth and Phoebe were the only intelligent women here last night," Louisa again reached for my hair, "it's good for the village. Tourism is our best hope for Portwenn's economy, and the show will help immensely. Elwa Fleming from Visit Cornwall said that summer bookings are phenomenal. I, for one, am pleased that more money will come into the village. Think of how much it will help my students and your patients.

"Phoebe and Ruth can write their books after the hubbub has died down." Louisa added. "They've worked very hard and with difficult people and circumstances. Let them have a laugh, enjoy life a bit. Both are terribly fascinating women and deserve some fun."

I knew, or thought I knew, about Aunt Ruth's life. For whatever reason, she found it acceptable to devote her career as well as her life to the criminally insane at Broadmoor. The doolallies, as she called them, were more appealing to her than marriage or having any sort of family. When I saw her at my grandparent Ellingham's home and then in her small flat after their death, she had always been on edge, anxious to resume work. My father stopped making even the occasional duty call to her when I went on to Oxford. I do not think either of them regretted it. Like Aunt Joan, Ruth was another Ellingham not keen on my father. I was the third.

Until Louisa, I did not know life beyond work could be as enjoyable as the work, itself. She and James Henry had enriched me and ended the misery that is my family's legacy. Aunt Joan had abandoned the pain of being an Ellingham by escaping to Portwenn. It seemed Aunt Ruth was belatedly following her. If the frivolity of 'Khyber Love' and chess with Al Large made her happy, so be it.

Louisa had finished winding James Henry and settled him on the rug for a rest. Placing a hand on my shoulder she lifted herself, moaning: "Oh, I should have stopped at the first glass." I wisely did not comment as Louisa had made her thoughts clear to me on the subject of wine. It was the Maginot Line of our marriage, and I would not breach it. Just as she would not force me into dressing like the slovenly villagers, except on Sundays. After my shower I would don the Henley and jeans that Louisa assured me were "perfectly suitable" for wearing about our home or even our forays outside Portwenn. I had drawn my own Maginot Line at trainers and instead wore Tod slip-ons with extra arch support.

My reverie ended as Louisa began to noisily search through the fridge. "Martin, have you seen the yoghurt? I bought a carton yesterday and can't find it."

I patted James Henry's tummy and took myself to the fridge, easily retrieving the "missing" yoghurt for Louisa. She rewarded me with a kiss on my shoulder and the comment: "I knew you were good for something beyond – well – you know."

Even now, a bit embarrassed by Louisa's innuendo, I tried to change the subject: "Uhm, yes, there is that. Tell me about Dr. Nielsen," I dithered.

Louisa's face brightened as she mixed yoghurt with cereal in her morning ritual. It was clear that she was taken in by this Phoebe person. "Oh, Martin, she and Ruth had us enthralled by their stories of Broadmoor. Ruth has never talked so much. The people they treated were all over the newspapers and their crimes were heinous. But the two of them really got to the heart of their patients' problems. Many of them simply had low mental capacity or physical problems that could have been cured if anyone cared enough about them.

"I know, Martin, I know. You'll say I have far too much sympathy for criminals, but not everyone at Broadmoor was innately bad as you might argue. There were some horrendous, evil people Ruth and Phoebe could not help, and they needed to be separated from society. But I do worry about some of my quiet boys who don't fit in with the other children. I want Phoebe to have a chat with a few of them while she's in Portwenn. She originally trained as a child psychiatrist in America, and offered some good insights last night."

"America? I thought she was English. Or has she only lived her so long that she's adopted the accent?" She certainly sounded British to me.

"No, Phoebe's father was an American doctor who worked around the world for a religious medical service. Her mum was a Scottish lay missionary who met and married her dad in Africa. Namibia was it? When Phoebe left for university in 1960, her parents and younger sister lived in _Little Guinea_ - sorry, I mean New Guinea. Her father managed a clinic for those afflicted with Kuru."

"Kuru?" I was incredulous. "Phoebe's father treated Kuru?"

"Yes. It sounds simply awful. The Southern Fore people, especially women, would eat the brains of dead relatives they were preparing for burial. Sometimes the fat layers from the dead were given to children and the elderly as a nutrition aid," Louisa shuddered. "Phoebe said the Fore called it the 'laughing sickness,' as they would burst into laughter while suffering tremors from the disease. Kuru is thought to be extinct now because the last known patients died a few years ago. However, it has an indeterminate incubation period – maybe as much as 40 years."

This was, indeed, incredible. During my med school rota at the Hospital for Tropical Diseases, we had learned about Kuru. It was the only known epidemic of human prion disease and killed thousands in New Guinea. Research related to Kuru provided insights into Creutzfeld-Jakob Disease in humans and Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy in cattle. More commonly called mad cow disease, it devastated the British beef industry in the 1990s and led to extensive agricultural reforms. The vigilance of the North Cornwall Water Company over water contaminated by cow manure was one result. Now I understood why Louisa found Dr. Nielsen fascinating, and I urged her to continue.

"Alright then, Martin," Louisa looked a bit surprised as I rarely wanted to learn more than needed about anyone. "Phoebe matriculated at Warwick University and then traveled to the States for medical school. British medical schools were very reluctant to accept women, but she was offered a place at a university in Minnesota. You'll recall that Ruth fought to attend medical school in England and was only admitted thanks to the wrath of your Grandmother Ellingham. Ruth said last night that she and your grandfather came to the point of divorce over the matter. Grandmother Ellingham had been desperate to become a doctor, but her family refused to allow her even nursing college. She was not about to let the same fate befall her daughter, particularly since Joan had been so thwarted by her father than she had severed family ties and moved to Portwenn."

I was speechless, as this bit of my family history was completely unknown to me. Joan never mentioned it; nor, of course, had Ruth. I had never given a thought to a time when women were not admitted to medical school. But Edith Montgomery had always prattled on about an obligation to her "foremothers" to excel at St. Mary's.

"Shall I go on Martin? You look a bit dazed."

"No, I mean, yes," I stammered. "Yes, please go on."

"After Phoebe finished medical school and residency in Minnesota, she returned to London where her parents now lived in retirement. It was difficult for any psychiatrist, let alone a woman, to set up a practice in England. She and Ruth worked for the courts and were deliberately referred the dodgiest cases. Eventually, both were hired at Broadmoor and stayed. Ruth may be reluctant to write now, but both she and Phoebe wrote extensively about their Broadmoor patients. They are modest about their accomplishments, but each described the other's work as groundbreaking. They are quite well-known in the field of criminal psychiatry. Everyone is eager for Ruth's book to be completed."

I nodded my head in agreement. My conversation with Louisa left me eager not only for Ruth's book but also an early opportunity to learn more about these two fascinating women: Phoebe Nielsen and the more-mysterious-than-ever, Ruth Ellingham.

Continued. . . .

Author's note: The music from "Khyber Love," which startled Martin and James Henry, is called "Fanfare for Fenella." It was written by the show's brilliant composer, Nicol Stowen.


	3. Chapter 3

**What Happened to Fan Fic Phoebe: A Doc Martin Mystery**

"**Khyber Love" and its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Poppyfield Productions. We are grateful to Ramint Slunec and his lovely wife, Tabitha Wire Alipphi, for allowing us to play about with their brilliant story.**

**Chapter 3 - Vauxhall**

My Sunday morning conversation with Louisa seemed farther away in time than the most distant constellation. She had returned from the Board of Governors meeting bursting with information about what would soon beset our village. In a torrent of words, none of which was of particular interest to me, Louisa nattered on about every aspect of the filming. After a few minutes, I began to prepare supper, convinced that was the only way I would dine that night. When our simple omelet and salad were ready, I poured a glass of white wine for Louisa and kissed her. She looked a bit startled by this double dose of solicitude and became relatively quiet during our meal.

This morning, Louisa had rushed off early to prepare for filming at the school, leaving James Henry to me. After feeding the both of us, he banged his spoon happily on the table top, whilst I described my day's schedule to him over espresso. Taking up James and his nappy case, I made my way to the front door of the surgery. Once open, I witnessed a scene worthy of a surrealist's dream.

The streets were awash in women. It was as if the mythical female country, Sarmatia, had been disgorged into the village. Portwenn was awash in osestrogen or its pharmacological equivalent. Women of every age and body type were clustering around brightly colored placards, chattering like so many jackdaws. I noticed a preponderance of endomorphs, several mesomorphs and a scant few ectomorphs. Amidst it all, Morwenna Newcross appeared, pushing through the crowd, her face bright with excitement. She took the three steps to the front ledge with her usual "Mornin' Doc," but added "It's incredible. Portwenn's not boring!"

I asked that she stand at the surgery door to ensure entry only by patients. Then I plunged into the mass of humanity, or to be more correct, femininity . As I made my way up Roscarrock Hill to the baby minder's cottage, I heard the welcome voice of Roger Fenn: "Hello, mate. Great isn't it. The village coffers will be filled over the next few weeks. I've picked up a bit of work helping with crowd control. Spent the night posting these signs."

"What do they mean," my head twirling from one confusing arrow-shaped placard to another

"Oh, simple really. Those in blue, labeled "_ggo85,_" lead to the harbour where the Baroness and Warlord will arrive for the wedding. Then there are the green "_hanb96_" signs for the pub. Part of Simon's stag will be staged there. Now, the pink "_jd517_" placards are for the school. Louisa told you about the filming, didn't she? Follow the yellow "_licy4_" arrows to the Leisure Center, but I'm sworn to secrecy about who will appear there. Hint, mate, it's not Simon. Finally, the red signs with "_fanficfan71_" direct the Fan Fiction Writers to their convention at the Village Hall. Ingenious, isn't it?"

Before I could disagree, Roger patted my back, wished me a good morning and hurried off toward the Platt. One benefit of carrying James Henry was that the hordes parted with no need to shout. Unfortunately, the many females did find a need to comment on James as we moved along. "Isn't he the cutest little thing," spoken by an American, an endomorph of course. "The wee bairn looks just like his dad, now doesn't he?" I recognized the Scottish burr as I held James tighter with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. Oh the doors my son has opened for me. By the time we arrived at Mary Glywith's home, James had been cooed over and complimented in many languages, including – I was fairly certain – Basque.

Now to make my way back through the crush without James Henry as my shield. Lacking my blonde son, I was of little interest to the women and moved easily back to the surgery. Morwenna was missing from her front door post, and – to make matters worse – I heard her arguing in an unaccustomedly loud voice as I approached the door. Well, I would soon rid my inner sanctum of whichever tourist had the nerve to enter. This was the type of nonsense I had warned Louisa about on Sunday.

Adopting my most bellicose posture, I marched into the surgery to see Pauline Lamb Large had taken her former place behind the receptionist's desk. Morwenna was trying to dislodge her by physically forcing her predecessor from the chair. Not surprisingly, Pauline would not give a centimeter. "Stop it, you two," I bellowed with enough force to gain their attention.

"Pauline, what the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Well, Doc, I'm back from my honeymoon and had a mind to stop by. Professional courtesy and all that. I found this one standing on the front ledge while the bleeping phone was ringing like mad. I came in to answer it for you. Someone has to be practise manager, and she isn't fit."

As Morwenna opened her mouth to protest, I held up my hand: "Enough! You, Pauline, get up. You, Morwenna, sit down." If my receptionist's earlier look was one of excitement, this was one of triumph as she clearly bested the indomitable Pauline Lamb Large. Ignoring defeat, Pauline looked at me with feisty green eyes and ordered me to my consultation room, "where I can meet with Dr. Ellingham in private." Both Morwenna and I were startled by her audacity, but I complied.

Pauline informed me that the television show's location manager had hired her to treat the assorted injuries the crew would likely suffer during the filming. Having qualified as a Health Care Assistant in Bristol, she had applied for an opening with my Portwenn NHS practice. However, the post would not be available for a few months until the current HCA married and moved to York. Pauline had time on her hands and, as Al Large pointed out at their wedding, "You don't want to give Paul too much time. You know she gets, Doc."

By busying myself at the supply cabinet, Pauline finally received the hint that I did not wish for a catch-up and stood to leave. When Morwenna opened the door to announce the first patient, Pauline was ready. "You know, I was Doc's phlebotomist. I was more practise manager than a mere receptionist," her hauteur worthy of the snidest London matron.

"Well, I assist the doc in operations. We saved Louisa's mother from dying," Morwenna stood taller as she delivered her response. For good measure, she added "My hair's naturally blonde and not some chav ginger colour like yours or that freak Fenella!"

"Don't you talk about Fenella that way," Pauline exploded. "She's going to marry Simon Siddiqi and that bossy Jennifer can go back to America. You're lucky I have a proper post with 'Khyber Love' or Dr. Ellingham would have me back here in a minute. Right, Doc?"

"Really, Pauline, you must leave. I must examine Mr. Cunningham's calcaneus.

"You mean his heel bone, right Doc? See, you don't know that," Pauline directed her condescension to Morwenna.

"Out Pauline. Now," I ordered.

Pauline extended her hand to me and said with the sincerity of an amoebae, "So nice to catch up with a colleague, Dr. Ellingham," and breezed into the reception area.

"Women," Mr. Cunningham intoned. "Have you seen the lot overrunning the village? No good will come of this business, Doc."

I had to agree with my patient, relieved that I was sheltered from the madness unfolding outside my reasonably sane surgery. But that joy was short-lived as PC Penhale called through the tightly closed door: "Doc, I've got to see you now. Bit of the lurky and Pauline said to go through."

I turned from Mr. Cunningham and pulled the door ajar: "Pauline does not work here. Morwenna is in charge. Take a seat."

After prescribing an antacid and de-hydration salts for the constable, I watched my day unfold in an increasingly unruly fashion. I skipped my noon-time visit to James Henry, hoping to catch up with the extra patients Morwenna continued to squeeze in. Penhale was not the only one with a touch of fever and nausea, and I wondered if the onslaught of visitors had introduced new germs to the village. Not that more were needed.

Around half four Morwenna timidly knocked on the door. I noticed that she had been subdued throughout the day and feared that the intrusion by Pauline had drained her confidence.

"Dr. Ellingham," her use of my title concerned me. She might have convinced herself to resign in favour of Pauline.

"Morwenna, there is no need for you to leave," I jumped in. "I am pleased with your work. Mrs. Large has a temporary post and will likely work in the NHS practice in a few months. You have a job here."

"Then, I can't leave now doc?"

"No," I mumbled, adding "next patient."

"You've finished with everyone. Mrs. Larrimore is a bit late but should be here shortly. Then there are the two lifeboat crew mates who need tetanus jabs. So, can I leave Doc? I really want to see the _sambaq dhow_."

I had no idea what she was talking about and told her so.

"Oh, everyone is talking about it. Simon's parents, the Warlord and Baroness, are arriving by a _dhow _for the wedding. They've been rehearsing the scene all day at the harbour. If I can't leave, could I just watch from the ledge? Nothing like this has ever happened in Portwenn."

I had a vague recollection of a news report about several University of Exeter scientists who journeyed to Qatar for a joint study on Middle-Eastern and British sailing vessels. Morwenna explained that the _sambaq dhow_ was en route to the Maritime Museum in Plymouth as part of the project, when it was hired for use in the TV show. A picture on her computer screen showed its traditional red, triangular sails and an intricately carved wooden hull. If one were to be in Portwenn harbour, I wanted James Henry to see it. I said as much to Morwenna and ordered her to remain at the surgery whilst I quickly fetched my son.

As I returned with James, the _dhow_ began moving toward the harbour entrance. Morwenna and Mrs. Larrimore waved to me and called out "Oh, there's our man," meaning of course James Henry, not me. I handed James to Morwenna and ushered the patient into the surgery with the promise she could soon return to her vantage point. After prescribing a course of antibiotics for Mrs. Larrimore's urinary tract infection, I found two of the lifeboat crew lurking about the reception room. I saw to their tetanus jabs quickly, but they were eager to recount their experience guiding the _dhow_ through its paces. The two declared today as somewhere between "fantastic" and "bitchin." I took the latter to mean they enjoyed it.

Before returning to the ledge, I rummaged through a cupboard and found a set of binoculars and one of opera glasses. I had to admit to a slight sense of excitement for James Henry, but more for me.

Morwenna was jumping about as the handsome wood vessel slowly entered the harbour, red sails catching the wind. Once I handed her the opera glasses, she began a running narrative of the scene. The din from the crowd competed with the squalling seagulls as it seemed every tourist and being within 10 miles of the village came to see the boat.

Louisa arrived breathless, having run from school with several teachers in tow. The ledge was becoming a bit crowded, but this did not stop several of the cheeky teenage girls from mounting the steps and pushing their way into the group. I handed Louisa the binoculars and she passed them to the others, taking James Henry for a kiss and a cuddle.

"Oh, look," Tricia Soames squealed, binoculars at her eyes, "the Baroness is wearing a flowing grey dress with a bright blue scarf billowing in the breeze. She is spectacular. And the Warlord is dressed in a long white Afghan tunic with a black and silver embroidered vest. The actor looks much more dashing than in the Harry Potter films. Maureen Fenn took the binoculars from Tricia and reacted similarly: "He's simply gorgeous. When he played the arch-villain in the James Bond epics, he was all dark and evil. Little wonder Simon is so handsome!"

"You do realise, Maureen, that he is an actor and that this Simon is an actor and that they are not really father and son? You are a mother, Maureen, and should not be so mad for two actors," I remonstrated.

"Then I'm a _mad mother too_," Louisa laughed as she handed James to me: "Here my love, go to your father. There's no question you're his. Both of you are my handsome men."

"Louisa," my protestation was halted by a roar from the crowd as a single canoe put off from the dock bearing Simon Siddiqi. Two fishermen, dressed for some reason in blue and white sailor shirts, rowed with precision toward the _dhow. _Nearing the boat, Simon stood, maintaining his balance by grasping a strategically placed, upright oar. Numerous cameras and phones could be heard clicking as silence descended and the quite dramatic scene unfolded. The Baroness and Warlord were striking as they stood silhouetted against the red sails, majestically waving to their son.

When Simon reached the boat, a rope ladder was lowered, and he gamely began his ascent. Midway, he doffed his white Panama hat, allowing his long blonde locks to float in the wind. When he did so, a gasp arose from the crowd followed by hundreds of female voices ringing out: "Simon, Simon, Simon."

So caught up was I in the proceedings that I barely heard, "Martin, Martin, Martin" and turned to see Aunt Ruth gesturing from the surgery's door.

"I've just brought in Phoebe. She's not feeling well at all. Chills, bit of a fever, intermittent nausea. She's been overdoing it with the filming and this writer's convention. Could you have a quick look at her."

I handed James back to Louisa with a kiss on her cheek and followed Ruth into the surgery. Dr. Nielsen did look pale and drawn as she paced about my consultation room. "Dr. Ellingham, I'm so sorry. Ruth insisted I see you. I think it's only a bug I picked up from travelling."

"There is something going about. I've had a number of patients presenting with similar symptoms today. How long have you felt ill?"

"Initially, I put it down to overindulging in wine this weekend. But when I wasn't better by early afternoon, I asked Ruth for a Paracetamol, and she became somewhat concerned. Nothing to it really."

I frowned as I took Dr. Nielsen's blood pressure and then her pulse. Both were elevated, but that could have been anxiety over seeing a doctor. However, it did warrant a more thorough exam, which I performed under the intense gaze of Aunt Ruth.

I prescribed a course of rest, Paracetamol as needed for headache and Domperidone along with dry toast to keep the nausea in check.

"Thank you, Martin. I assure you that I will keep Phoebe at the farm tomorrow and this lot will just have to make do without her. We are always concerned about Phoebe's health following her experience with the Vauxhall Vampire." Ruth's worried expression belied her impassive manner.

"Oh, Ruth, really, that was years ago. The poor man's been dead for ages." Phoebe seemed exhausted from the effort of talking."

"What is this Vauxhall Vampire business," I asked, not certain if I really wanted to know.

Well, you see, Dr. Ellingham," Phoebe began, "about 15 years ago I treated a fairly notorious criminal dubbed the Vauxhall Vampire. He would abduct young women as they crossed the Vauxhall Bridge, drug them, and then extract several units of their blood. They were always left at an A&E, but several died before they could be transfused. No one ever sorted out what he did with the blood, but some theorized it might have been used to feed the rats found in his home. When the police finally stormed his flat, it was littered with living and dead rats, and he was covered in rat bites.

During a session at Broadmoor, he attacked me and bit me numerous times, mostly on my face. As you know, the face bleeds quite easily and any human bite which punctures the skin is dangerous. There's no indication that I developed anything beyond some minor facial scars, but Ruth has always worried that I would contract a wretched disease."

"Yes, Phoebe," Ruth joined in, "but what you are failing to tell Martin is that the Vauxhall Vampire not only was bitten by the rats, he also ate them. Researchers have shown that a secondary contact from a person bitten by a rat may not be harmful. However, no one has proven that someone who ate rats would not turn into a carrier of many diseases. Nor do they have an idea of the incubation period. A bite from the Vauxhall Vampire might be as dangerous as one from the rat, itself."

I was stunned into silence as I wondered exactly what other mysteries lurked behind the fevered grey eyes of Dr. Phoebe Nielsen.

. . . . continued

Author's note: The brilliant location manager for 'Khyber Love,' Ohn Jyn Barfdom, was pleased with the performance of both the _sambaq dhow _and Pauline Lamb Large – mostly.


End file.
